Service Out of the Ordinary Chapter 6
Notice: The following account depicts homosexual acts between consenting persons and is intended for mature readers only. Exercise your own judgment, in consultation with the appropriate laws and moral standards of your community, in deciding whether or not to read this work. While this story depicts significant events in the lives of certain individuals, readers are cautioned not to assume that their experiences are in any way representative of those of most homosexuals. Any connection between persons named herein and real persons, living or dead, is vigorously denied. Comments may be sent to paulsgoodboy@hotmail.com. This story may not be copied or distributed without the express written consent of the author. Copyright 2001 All Rights Reserved.
Chapter Six. Mutually Agreeable Positions
On the importance of good bargaining tools.
Exactly how that moment ended, I don’t remember, but I’m pretty sure when Paul woke up, he went about taking another shower and opening a window to air out the room. I’m pretty sure I returned home to shower and clean up, too. I don’t remember any words between us, which was neither a positive nor a negative sign. It’s just that Matt was due home any minute and there wasn’t time to talk. But I do remember a few days later watching Paul step out of his front door to go jogging. He had a slight stiffness in his walk, and I knew he was having a little difficulty. The jog was a short one, too, because he soon realized he was not yet ready to take long strides. Seeing that gave me a powerful rush of sexual energy, and I went up to my room to jack myself off into the sock, something I’d gotten quite good at over the past few months.
After being with Paul like that, though, I felt for certain that we belonged together. We couldn’t start dating each other, of course. There was, for one, the obvious danger. For another, Paul was continually stringing along some girl or another. But I tried not to think of that and instead developed a kind of motto to convince myself that I would be the one for him: She could not possibly share with him the kind of intimacy I did. She could not possibly be as devoted to him as I was. And she could never bring him the kind of pleasure he felt when he was with me.
It took some time for Paul to call me again, and for several days, I wasn’t sure what his reaction would be. But I knew my own. He had been enjoying the gift of my vulnerability, and now I enjoyed the gift of his. No one had ever entrusted me with something like that, and the experience opened my eyes to an obvious truth, one I had blinded myself to previously: Paul was not a god but a human being. He was only a young man, groping his uncertain way through the world, full of desires, weaknesses, dreams, hopes, sorrows. Capable of expressing both strength and tenderness. Possessing a heart that needed acceptance for what it was. He was, in a sense, just like me: a teenager who yearned for love more than anything else in the world. In my previous experiences with Paul, there’s no way I could have noticed that in him, for the simple reason that I had a hard time accepting it in myself.
I was determined more than ever to love Paul, and get him to love me. This may sound kind of foolish to you, and it is, but at the time I didn’t think so. My experience of taking Paul helps me understand now something I didn’t know at the time: that the secret of love involves mutual submission. When two partners surrender themselves completely to each other, with total trust and no expectations, each making of himself a gift to enjoy as the other will, they unleash an incredible loving power that neither could find alone. The key word here is trust, because that’s the real unknown in the intricate negotiation called love. You have to have enough faith in each other to trust that when things go bad some day, and they will, neither one of you will hang the other out dry.
Maybe I should have seen this at the time, but my insight into our relationship was not as clear as it is now. Meaning flows out of memory, not the other way around. For example, I see now that in surrendering myself to Paul, I made him arrogant, but over time I also made him responsible. Given the risky nature of our relationship, he had to learn to protect it and to respect its private boundaries. Eventually his arrogance cooled to a strong sense of confidence and, in time, a certain kind of caring. And I trusted him to preserve what we shared. By finally surrendering himself to me, Paul forced me to realize how much I saw the world only through the confines of my own selfish expectations. I see now that my wallowing self-pity was certainly narcissistic. And certainly my worship of Paul, at its core, was a kind of immature narcissism as well, such that, in a strange sense, I had been using Paul, and not the other way around. I learned one small but important lesson at the time, though. In taking a helpless, completely trusting Paul into my hands, I finally looked at him, rather than at myself through his eyes. I did finally start to see him as a lovely boy, as an interesting and complex young man, as an ordinary human being. He was still a very masculine, very sexy stud, but he became more than an image sculpted by my sexual desire. And while this insight didn’t in any way reduce my craving or my need for his domination, it did help me to see that there was much more to Paul than a mobile penis support system. In time, Paul would, I hoped, learn to trust my growing maturity.
It was in this way that I began to contemplate what before seemed simply unattainable: an intimate friendship with Paul. I was a senior in high school thinking about my college future. It’s odd, but I never really thought about the future much. But now when I thought of it, I couldn’t do so without putting Paul in it. I didn’t know how, but somehow I needed things to work out so that we could be together. So in the week or so of alone time following our last sexual encounter (Paul didn’t call because he was mulling things over in his own mind and needed the time to think), I decided what I would ask of him the next time I saw him. It was something, I thought, that would seal our commitment, that would show me to be receptive to his domination but also bring us together with a deeper understanding. I also promised myself that, for once, I would see him and, much as I might want to, not suck him off. I would prove to myself that there was more to him than his penis. I expected it to be a difficult test of will power—if I even had any left.
As it turns out, Paul didn’t ask me to suck him off the next time I saw him. I remember it was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was busy working on some math homework, a very difficult subject for me, when Paul came up to my room. The door was open, so he didn’t knock, and I was concentrating really hard, so I didn’t hear him come in. Finally he made a little noise, and I turned around, thinking it was my mom.
“Hey, I’m almost done... oh, it’s you!” I hadn’t been around Paul for a long time, almost too long, so seeing him all of a sudden made my body jump with desire. He had on tight jeans and a sweatshirt, and he just stood there with a sheepish look on his face. Sometimes he is so beautiful it just hurts me to look at him! But no, I said to myself, you’re going to resist the urge to suck him. You’re going to try to treat him like a regular guy, because he’s just a regular guy. He’s a regular guy, a regular guy, a regular guy...
Paul could tell my mind was preoccupied. “Look, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll come back later if you’re busy.”
“No, no, no. It’s okay. I was just working on this math problem” ...a regular guy, a regular guy... “but I need to take a break, so stay, please.”
Paul closed the door and sat on my bed. I was sitting at my desk, and he motioned for me to come over and sit beside him. Oh, man, this was going to be hard. Every instinct in my body was telling me to suck him off, to make him surrender his luscious cum. Not saying anything, I got up and sat on the bed, but far enough away that I could sit cross-legged while facing him. When I was finally so close to him, though, my dick got rock hard. Paul didn’t say anything about the lump in my sweatpants, and I think he was pretending not to notice.
“Look,” he started, “I don’t know how to say this, but I just wanted to talk to you, you know, and, well, I guess I wanted to thank you.” Paul looked up into my eyes for understanding, but I didn’t know what he was saying. Thank me? Thank me for what? I half expected that he might be pissed that I had taken him like I did, but here he was thanking me. Did I hear him right?
“You want to thank me? For what?”
Paul seemed a little shy about what he was going to say, and he glanced down, a little embarrassed. I had never seen this in him before. “You know, for everything you’ve been doing. For the sex, and all. I realize after what you did last week, and how unbelievably incredible that was”—Paul couldn’t help but smile a little at that, and neither could I—“that you’ve been so giving, and I’ve been, you know, so selfish. So I’ve been thinking about it for a while, thinking about a lot of things, and I’ve decided that I want to try to make it up to you in some way. This is hard to admit, but after last week I realized how much I enjoy being with you. So what I mean is, I don’t just want to say ‘thank you,’ I want to, you know, show you ‘thank you.’ Does this make sense?”
I have to admit that it didn’t. He was saying too much at once. What was Paul talking about? “Show” me? Show me how? Was Paul—and here it seemed I was contemplating the impossible—actually gay? The thought left me with a complex equation that wouldn’t easily be simplified.
I know that as you’re reading this, the meaning of Paul’s words may seem obvious. He was telling me that he wanted to initiate a more interactive dimension to our sexual relationship. He was telling me how much he enjoyed what he knew of homosexual sex. And he was telling me that he saw our bond as being much more than physical. It seems, in any case, that Paul was beginning to feel the emergence of a homosexual identity and was interested in exploring it. But to me, this was like theorizing the existence of imaginary numbers, something conceptual rather than real, even if their consequence was so apparent. You have to understand that “gay” and “straight” were absolute terms for us where we lived, such that any concept of bisexuality never entered the picture. Further, “gay” and “straight” were such socially-charged terms (in many ways they still are, I guess) that sexual identity was as much corporate as it was personal. What I mean is that public perceptions of one’s sexuality were as significant as self-identification, sometimes more so.
Someone like me, for example, who had done and actually enjoyed doing the most degrading of acts, that is, sucking cock, was a fag beyond any hope of recovery. It didn’t matter that only Paul and I knew about it. What I did defined me nonetheless. To him and to me, I was a fag, and, luckily for me, he accepted it. Someone like Paul, however, could credibly maintain his claim to being straight as long as, one, his gay relationship didn’t become public knowledge, and two, he didn’t engage in anything that would permanently change his status, that is, cocksucking or ass fucking. Beyond these two things, any heterosexual sex automatically trumped whatever else he might have done, and Paul was pretty safe in this regard because all he’d really done so far was to be on the receiving end of fellatio. Thus, because he had a well-established public image of heterosexuality, his role, if it became known, would, for him, be met with scorn but ultimately judged a passing transgression. Because I had no record of heterosexuality whatsoever, my actions, if they became known, would brand me an outcast from society.
By finger-fucking Paul, I had introduced a troublesome x-factor into this complex calculus and upset the balance of this identity equation. Certainly what I had done was transgressive, but it was one of those things that occupied an ambiguous middle ground between two polar opposites. It wasn’t really ass fucking, but it was anal penetration. I had taken advantage of him, but Paul yielded somewhat willingly. That he had enjoyed it complicated matters, but not as much as his openly admitting how much. The unspoken implication was that he wanted to do it again. And now that he was proposing to “show me ‘thank you,’” the prospective hazard to his self-image increased tenfold. Thus, his offer had profound psychological, and therefore social, ramifications. What could Paul possibly have in mind? Was he relinquishing his claim to being straight? I was almost too scared to find out. The truly bizarre thing was that I simultaneously hoped it would be something completely innocuous, like his deciding to, say, give me a gift, and something as potentially deadly as his deciding to fuck me up the ass in a public park.
Once again, I was at a loss for words around Paul. I think he understood from the look of astonishment on my face the direction my thought was going. He understood as much as I did the problematic nature of what he was saying. “I’m not saying that I’m gay. I mean, I, uh, like girls and all that, and I want to... well, you know, whatever. What I mean is that I want to continue to do things with you. But I think it only fair that I try to, you know, pay you back a little. It’s just that after what you did last time, well, that was the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me, and it made me realize how selfish I’ve been with you. I just thought that I could, you know, start to help you out, too, so you could enjoy it as much as I do.” Paul was doing his best to get the words out, and I wasn’t helping any by not saying anything. I was tense. He was tense. Without saying anything, I fished out a bottle stuffed into the back of my desk drawer, took a swig, and offered it to Paul. He drank, too. “Look,” he said, “this is a little weird for me, you know. I’ve never had this kind of conversation before, so if you want me to leave, I will...”
“No, no, please. I’m sorry. I’m just so surprised by this. I never expected it.” Finally, the words came out!
“Yeah, I’m kind of surprised by it, too. But like I said, I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and it just kind of seems right on some level, you know?”
“If you say so. I’m not going to question it. I’m willing to do whatever you want. You know that. To me, you seem right on every level!”
“Yeah?”
“Oh, Paul...Yes!” The desire boiling up in me flowed out when I spoke. There was nothing imaginary about that, so forget about equations, nonlinear functions, and the abscissa and ordinate of Paul’s sexuality. I did something I thought I’d never do. I don’t even remember thinking about it, it was just something my body did all on its own. I uncrossed my legs, leaned over, and kissed Paul—full on the lips!
I think Paul was smart enough to see it coming, but too surprised to do anything about it. I didn’t really realize what was happening until it happened, which was a good thing because otherwise I probably would have chickened out. But at any rate, it was my first kiss, and it was wonderful. I can still feel that first impression of Paul’s lips on my own, how warm and soft and sweet tasting they were. It didn’t last very long, maybe a second or two, but it was something I’d been dreaming of for a long time, something I wanted to happen since before my birthday when I fell under his spell. What a surprise when Paul didn’t recoil, but reached up to cradle my head in his hands and kiss me back!
It’s strange, but as much as I can put words to what it felt like to suck Paul off, I can’t put words to that kiss. It’s not that it was physically spectacular, as I was new to the whole thing and not very good at it, but it was, in a way, spiritual. I hate to use that cliché, but somehow that kiss united us in a manner beyond the here and now. It was a kind of pure experience, wholly unmediated by any thoughts or preconceptions or feelings of self-consciousness. When we pulled back, there weren’t any words between us, but neither of us felt the need to speak. We had said what we wanted to by kissing each other, and for the next few minutes that’s all we did. When I looked into Paul’s eyes, I know he saw the same adoration he’d always seen from me. When he looked into my eyes, I felt for the first time that he cared for me, that perhaps he really did love me. In his arms, I trusted him completely, and he trusted me. I guess that’s why, after kissing him, holding him, putting my hands around his face and neck, feeling him do the same to me, I gazed into his eyes and said, “I love you, Paul.”
I don’t think Paul expected that, but he smiled warmly and continued to kiss me, happy that I had said it, I think. Then he pushed me down onto my bed and climbed on top of me. Both our cocks were raging hard, and, while continuing to kiss me, Paul started grinding his hips into mine. I had my legs spread open and wrapped around his, so if I had been a girl, it would have looked like we were having sex in the missionary position. Paul let his full weight come down upon me, and I wrapped my arms around his back, using my whole body to pull him in tighter with each thrust. His cock felt enormous against me, even underneath our clothing. Paul moaned softly in my ear and kissed my lips, my face, my neck. When he kissed me just under the corner of my jaw, right beneath my ear, the pleasure was so intense I was ready to explode.
“Oh, Paul, I think... I’m going... to come.” I huffed out the words between breaths. My inhibitions had so melted away that I vocalized my own desire for the first time. Paul continued to kiss me with determined vigor, his own breathing as rapid as mine.
“Yeah?” he asked between kisses.
“Oh yes, Paul. Please... please make me come...”
Paul stopped thrusting and looked into my eyes, his smile telling me how pleased he was with the boy lying beneath him. “Why did you stop?” I asked.
“Because. I don’t want you to. Not yet.” Then Paul rolled off me onto his side and quickly thrust his hand down the front of my sweatpants and underwear. He grabbed my rigid penis in his fist and squeezed the shaft, firmly. My urge to ejaculate quickly subsided, as did my erection. When Paul saw the tension in my face pass, he slipped his hand back out, making no indication of the fact that he had just touched me for the first time. I was a little disappointed, and wondered if for some reason he was, too.
Paul stood up beside the bed, his own cock semi-hard and admirably filling his jeans. His face was flushed, the hair around it damp with sweat. He paused for a second to catch his breath, then asked, “Your mom is home, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Okay. Let’s go over to my house, then. We should have about an hour or so before anyone gets back.” Paul made no explanation of his actions. He said only what was minimally necessary and expected no questions. This is what’s called “command presence,” and Paul had it in spades.
“Yeah, okay.” Paul gave me an order, and as usual I responded without hesitation, getting up from the bed and going over to my closet. I didn’t know what was going on, but whatever it was, it sounded like it was going to be good. When I looked at Paul, heard him issue his commands, only one thought came to my mind. God, I wanted to suck on him so bad. The urge was about to kill me. Fuck whatever I said earlier: Paul was no regular guy.
“Should I change?” I asked.
“No. Just wear what you have on. But put on some shoes. No need for socks. And bring a jacket or something. It’s cold out.” With anyone else, his words might have sounded a little insulting, like I didn’t know how to dress myself. But with Paul, they were just orders, implying no judgment whatsoever, only the expectation that they be carried out.
I got my shoes on quickly and pulled my jacket from its hanger. Paul was waiting for me by my bedroom door, and I had my back turned to him. Then I remembered something else I should bring, and said, “Okay, I’m ready. Just let me get my, uh, special sock.” Paul’s response took me completely by surprise.
“Leave it here. You won’t need it.”
When we got over to his room, Paul took my jacket, pointed to his bed, and said, “Take your clothes off and lie down.” I was utterly confused, but what could I do. I proceeded to strip. As I did so, Paul took off his own clothes, including his underwear, but then put on a tee shirt and a loose fitting pair of shorts. When I got down to my underwear, I hesitated for a second, but pulled them right off, as Paul hadn’t made any distinctions in his instructions. As usual, when he saw me naked, he gave no indication of approval or disapproval, but simply said, “Good boy. Now lie down. You can get under the covers if you want.”
I slipped under the sheets and blankets, and man, was I ever horny. My dick was hard again, and my mouth began to salivate in anticipation of a meal. I was just like Pavlov’s dog, only I was Paul’s dog, Paul’s good boy. I stretched out on my back and peeped up over the blankets as I watched Paul finish changing. He looked at me with a wicked, teasing smirk.
“You little slut, you can’t stand it can you?”
“I can’t help it, Paul. Seeing you does things to me that I can’t control. I’m sorry, it’s just the way I am!”
“It’s okay, I like it,” he said, grinning with self-satisfaction. Finished, he climbed up onto the bed and knelt over me, pinning me down beneath the sheets. His hips rested a little further up than mine, but pressed down on my erection, which was lying flat against my stomach. Looking down, he started teasing me again. “Tell me about it, stud. Tell me what you want.”
This kind of foreplay was new, and I liked it. Paul was taunting me. Though he used the word in reference to me, it was clear between us who the real stud was. Trapped beneath the covers of his bed, I could do nothing but look up at Paul and yield to his domination. He started kissing me again, just as he had on my bed. “Come on, tell me.” The words came easily.
“I want you, Paul. I want to suck you. I want to suck your dick. Please! Please let me do it, Paul! Please let me suck on you and swallow your cum!” I was getting frantic with desire. My lust was almost more than I could bear, and I could see Paul’s cock tenting his shorts, straining to break free and bury itself in my waiting mouth.
Paul pulled the leg of his shorts open and slipped his hard dick out against his thigh. He leaned over my face and held it above my lips, just out of contact. I strained to reach him with my tongue. “You want this, do you?” he asked playfully, slowly stroking up and down his shaft. I could see a drop of precum sweetly glistening in his piss slit, slowly getting larger, getting ready to drip down onto my face.
“Yes! Please!” I was almost screaming, almost ready to cry.
“Well, you’re not going to get it. At least, not yet!” I couldn’t believe my eyes as Paul tucked himself back into his shorts!
“No! Please let me suck you, Paul! I’ll do anything you want, anything at all. Just let me suck you first. I can’t stand it! I’ve got to have you in my mouth!”
Then Paul assumed an attitude that was simply devious. “Hmm,” he said. “Seems like the tables have turned, haven’t they?”
Fuck! He was right. Here I was, in the same position he had been in, making promises I wasn’t sure I could keep, betrayed by my own lust. With me, the issue was probably moot, because there wasn’t much Paul could ask that I would refuse to do. Still, he was enjoying himself way too much here.
“You bastard! You tricked me!” I cried.
“Yup, I did! Isn’t it great?” Paul started laughing, immensely pleased with himself. I was a little annoyed that I’d let him trap me so easily, but I had never been happier in my life. Pinned under my man, so strong, so handsome, so lovely to see, to hear, to smell, to feel, I was ready to give him my life if he wanted it. I loved Paul. In that moment I loved him without envy, without arrogance, without selfishness or resentment. I loved him with complete faith, hope, and trust. I loved him more than anything else life could provide.
I began to laugh, too. “Get off me, you prick! I’m not going to promise you anything!” I was grinning so hard I could hardly speak. Paul’s manner suddenly became serious, and he looked down into my eyes with such passion that time stood still for me, as though the earth itself ceased rotating. I could hear the sound of blood pumping through my ears and then Paul’s voice drowning out all other thoughts in my mind. Why he said what he did, I don’t know, but it was a truth both of us seemed to implicitly understand. His lips moving in slow motion, the words seemed to emerge, not from his mouth, but from the soft, spongy core of my own brain.
“Oh yes, you will... if I wanted it, you’d promise me your very soul.”
Yes. Yes, I suppose I would.
And that, more than anything else ever had, scared the shit out of me.
Look for “Chapter Seven. Big Dog World.”
Comments may be sent to paulsgoodboy@hotmail.com.